I am in disgrace, imposed Strictly between the lines hunger drew,Composed ofI had it! I had it!But a poor speaker gone near-publicWith a whetted conscience of mayonnaiseAnd economic morality gone sour,I jerk off into another memory, siftingMy self-rising hour, shifting on my feetLike an entrepreneur trading promises,Looking to the burning bush for better days.

I've been swallowed by that whale,Caught in the drift of a dedicated urge.I had it, I'll borrow toReplace it in one revolution or two.Yes indeed! I had it to give itIts proper massage at face value,To grease the palm tree with coconutsOr oil spilt during an afternoon's taboo.

If'n you are polite, sayYou are void of impulse, andLet it go at that, say no thanksBut I have to go. (PeriodicallyPerjury is a motive knownTo the best of legends.)I had it, almost.

Language, your honor,Is mere alphabet dirt. Abandonment is energyToo sharp to touch without furor,But say, haul it in,Taste beyond contentment The release Doing its own work, And other mad values captioned in crime.

Strapped to thyself against the deck, say Blow, say blow bay blow, say Grab up cane and tame the vicious dog. Know that fear's elect echoes no chorus But somehow somewhere sometimes forgets To clothe itself with dignity befitting Its call, say howl Allen Ginsberg If you chance meeting him In occupied territory Where gods wrestle and speak, say Speak to us in whale. And to the last word Nymphomaniacs and their guessing captors, Legging margins across the dispassionate land, say Hey button those blouses open to angry remarks Ruthless enough to Naomi, say Juggle yesterday's summer Until parenthetical dawn, say Nothing to Walt Whitman, Ezra say Pound, the captain of swans, Willie Mays say hey Neil Young, sayMyâ€¦myâ€¦myâ€¦nothing To the brash Elvis, research impulsive, Or Johnny Rotten in the heat Of awkward citizenship.

And Mother Alibi, say the key to happiness Won't open the door Where implication and silenceAre only as good As each word implies, Say, how is it every time I pray I feel like deodorized vomit, say Souls grow on bones but die beneath Banker's hours, say Tell us your name whale, and We'll make you a star, casting Matches like chorus lines Between government issues, say Where do we hang our hammock, say Hope a man will cut his hair Simply to punctuate a sentence, or Fix his neighbor a cheese sandwich, say To Delilah Mae Jones, Samson is dead. Say, but There has come another greater than he, say Welcome y'all, say crab canons are delicious Ways of life, say whales of America Are a sign to insurance agents.

If'n you are angrily plundered, say Do not be tricked by men, say But let them trick you, sampling Their techniques So that you are never sent to the orchards To gather unbias pickles, say Pairs of excuses are unexplainable To a whale who is strictly vegetarian For reasons only the father knows, say Midnight cravings innocently coded In hollow rhetoric Are useless to the slayers of Civil disobedience, say Navel oranges tapered to grip expense Sit down, roll around, gnaw bones, shape knees, And remind us that chaos is culture, say Practice what you preach, say Silence. I am in disgrace, almost.

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Quoth the Raven

"Intellectual economics guarantees that even the most powerful and challenging work cannot protect itself from the order of fashion. Becoming-fashion, becoming-commodity, becoming-ruin. Such instant, indeed retroactive ruins, are the virtual landscape of the stupid underground. The exits and lines of flight pursued by Deleuze and Guattari are being shut down and rerouted by the very people who would take them most seriously."